by Harvey Black
“Understood. Out.”
“All Delta-Three call signs. Prepare to pull out. Three-One. Stay in situ and cover.”
“Look, sir!” yelled Corporal Marsh, pointing at the BMDs, three of them powering through the smoke. The first one fired its 73mm gun, hitting nothing but causing the British soldiers to duck. The general-purpose machine gun rattled as the gunner poured a steady stream of bullets along the column of armour, but to no avail.
“Three-Three. Pull out, pull out now. Three-One, standby, standby.”
“Grenade!” shouted Sergeant Mason as he threw a grenade towards the advancing enemy, the front BMD of the column now level with their line. The grenade exploded directly in front, but with no effect as the infantry combat vehicle maintained its speed.
“Watch for—”
Lieutenant Reynolds was unable to complete his warning as a round from a PKT, a coaxial machine gun mounted on the second vehicle, struck him square in the chest and he staggered sideways, Sergeant Mason catching him before he hit the ground. The staring eyes told the story, and the sergeant left him, calling to his men to pull back. There weren’t many of Three-Section to hear the order. The rifle-group, bar one man, had been wiped out. Lance Corporal Marsh fell as he was covering his gun-group’s withdrawal. Reynolds’ radio operator was was giving the platoon commander’s runner a fireman’s lift, moving as quickly as he could for cover amongst the few trees that lined the embankment alongside the canal. The two soldiers from Two-Section, sent to guard the canal earlier, provided what cover they could, their SLRs barking as they each emptied a twenty-round magazine. Sergeant Mason ran with the gun-group, throwing themselves down on the grassy bank, and firing at whatever target they could see.
Airborne infantry were following the armour on foot, the last of the vehicles an ASU-85 self-propelled anti-tank gun. Mason saw two of the Soviets go down; then felt something pluck at his sleeve as the third BMD in the line had circled back, its coax PKT firing wildly as the vehicle bounced along the rough ground in between the hard-packed track and the embankment. He froze. In his head, it was all over. They had the enemy to their right and airborne armour to their left. He plucked a grenade from his webbing and was about to throw it when the BMD lifted at least two metres off the ground, the front dipping, the back flipping over, then skidding to a halt less than ten metres from their position. The ASU-85 fired at a target Sergeant Mason couldn’t see, but it too erupted in a blaze, some of its crew screaming as they tried to escape the flames that were rapidly devouring them. A West German Marder, its distinctive zigzag pattern side-skirts, rocked to a halt in front of the stricken BMD destroyed earlier, its 20mm cannon pumping round after round towards the now retreating enemy. A second Marder moved along the track until level with the tunnel head, and six soldiers, sitting back to back in the troop compartment at the rear, dismounted. They were joined by a third, and Mason could see a Leopard 2, a Bundeswehr main battle tank, further back.
A Bundeswehr soldier, an Oberleutnant, a senior lieutenant, came running over to him at a crouch. “Where is your officer?”
“Dead, sir,” yelled Mason as he peeled off his mask, his voice almost drowned out as a Marder fired a burst from its auto cannon.
“You get your men away. Now. You have fünf Minuten. Then we go.”
“Have you seen the rest of my platoon?”
“There are some men back by the treeline to the rear. You have two vehicles. The enemy destroyed two. Now go.”
With that, the German officer went to rejoin his men who were in a pitch battle with the Soviet troops. Mason called to the soldiers around him and led them west along the embankment. Once they could see the clearing and the two surviving Saxons, he took them west and rejoined the battered remains of the platoon. Before he did a check on the status of his surviving unit, he got onto HQ.
“Zero-Delta, this is Delta-Three-Zero-Alpha. Over.”
“This is Zero-Delta. Good to hear from you. No time for a sitrep. Move your platoon immediately. Get them to Purple-One. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Delta-Three-Zero-Alpha. Delta-Three to move to Purple-One. Over.”
“Where is Delta-Three-Zero?”
“Down, sir.”
“Roger. Move now. Out.”
Chapter 11
1040, 9 JULY 1984. 5TH BATTALION, ROYAL ANGLIAN REGIMENT (TA), 49TH INFANTRY BRIGADE, 2ND INFANTRY DIVISION. NORTHEAST OF RINTELN, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS
“I want your platoon on the eastern edge of the quarry.” Major Dawson said, referring to the track that led to a large quarry that ran along the southern side of the E8 Autobahn, four kilometres northeast of Rinteln. “That way, you can cover a full 180-degree front. Two-Platoon will straddle the road north of you so; with you on the high ground, you can give them some cover. It’s not high, but at 200 metres, you’ll get a good view of any enemy approaching.”
“Are we getting any mines, sir?” asked Lieutenant Gibson, commander of One-Platoon. “We need something to slow them down.”
“Yes. Well, very soon anyway. There’s a detachment of engineers joining us. You’ll have Three-Platoon to your south. They’ll cover your right flank.”
“And the rest of the battalion, sir?”
The major turned and pointed. “Two-Company will cover from Bad Eilsen in the north to the forested high ground over there,” he replied, indicating the high ground of Wesergebirge. “Three-Company are in reserve, covering our backs. Four-Company have been assigned as part of the Brigade reserve.”
Gibson looked towards the tracks that ran up to the top and skirted the quarry and asked, “Do you think these will these make it, sir?” He pointed at the Saxon armoured personnel carriers. “It looks pretty rough, maybe better suited to tracked vehicles.”
Major Dawson followed Gibson’s gaze. “You should make it. Just ensure you stick to the tracks. If you get bogged down, there’ll be no one to get you out.”
Gibson laughed. “Added incentive then, sir.”
“I doubt there’s much cover up there, Michael, so make sure your men dig in well. We have to have a presence up there. When you extract, you need to move quickly.” The major ran his finger along the map that was secured in a canvas case with a clear plastic front. “Looking at this, the southern slope of the quarry is out of the question. It’s too steep to get the vehicles down. It’s the same for the northern slope. You could get your platoon down, but without your vehicles. Anyway, that could take you straight into the arms of the Soviets. They’ll more than likely use the road as their main axis of attack. So, you have to race back across the top, back along the route you’ll use to get into position.”
“We’ll be pretty exposed to any air attack, sir.”
“That’s why speed is of the essence.”
“Our RV?”
“We have to avoid Rinteln. So keep between the northern edge of the Autobahn and the high ground to the south. Three-Company will cover our withdrawal and our RV is Todenmann. That’s where we’ll have set up all over again. Oh, nearly forgot, you’ll be joined by a section from the anti-tank platoon, with two Milan FPs.”
They both turned as they heard the roar of diesel engines as four Saxon armoured personnel carriers of Two-Platoon passed them and swung off to the left onto the L442 and passed beneath the six-lane motorway above. Both officers’ heads jerked upwards as two Spartan CVRTs came to a halt on the southern part of the Autobahn, directly above the platoon, as the last of the Saxons passed beneath. British soldiers quickly debussed and moved into position. A third Spartan, carrying more Royal Engineers, although invisible from the ground below, could be heard racing past their comrades, heading towards the far end of the flyover.
The Royal Engineers had two tasks: The first was to lay mines further along the motorway directly in front of Two-Platoon. The intention was to bring the enemy to an abrupt halt, giving the soldiers from the 5th Battalion, Royal Anglians, an opportunity to open fire on a disrupted enemy force. It w
ouldn’t hold the enemy up for long as they would quickly attempt to outflank the defending force, calling in artillery and air strikes to dislodge them. The second task was to make life even more difficult for the enemy by blowing up the raised section of the Autobahn, forcing the Soviet army to bypass it, slowing down their advance. Any Soviet forces backing up as a consequence of this man-made traffic jam would then come to the attention of the NATO air forces and a battery of FH-70s, setting up further to the west to support the Royal Anglians.
The Territorial Army units, assigned to reinforce the British Army of the Rhine, and this particular battalion assigned to 2st Infantry Division, were being rushed to the front to help plug the gaps and slow the Warsaw Pact down, giving the retreating British Divisions some respite so they could recover, refuel, rearm and prepare themselves to be thrown back into the fight.
The 2nd Infantry Division, with the 15th (North-East) Brigade and the 49th (East) Brigade, along with additional Territorial Army battalions, were about to take the brunt of the massed army steamrollering towards them. Although well trained, they were not soldiers by profession. Only a week ago, their full-time profession was that of a clerk, bricklayer, accountant, hospital porter or a selection of many other trades and skills that provided them and their families with a living. Yes, they had all completed their annual two weeks of training for a small financial bounty, some of the exercises actually being held in Germany. The majority had also turned up regularly at the fortnightly weekend training sessions held at the various drill halls around the country, or weekends away on field training. But this was different; this was for real. Now they were full-time soldiers, about to come up against an aggressive, driven force of men and machines that had one purpose in mind: to crush them, destroy them, then pass through and continue with their relentless drive towards the English Channel.
“Who’s covering them, sir?” Gibson said, pointing to the engineers already unloading some of the equipment they would need to use in order to prepare the flyover for destruction.
“They’ll have to look after themselves, I’m afraid,” the Company Commander responded with a smile. “I believe they’ve been bolstered to ensure they can protect each other. Anyway, the Soviets will need to get past us first.”
They heard the roar of engines again. This time, it was Three-Platoon who passed them, to turn right and set up south of the quarry. They would drive southeast down Hamelner Strasse, turn left and dig in south of the quarry, protecting One-Platoon’s right flank.
The lead vehicle pulled over. The large wheels locked and slid over the loose grit, and Lieutenant Shaw dismounted.
“Any change, sir? Hi, Mike,” asked the officer, saluting, at the same time acknowledging his fellow platoon commander.
“No, Peter. As we discussed, we have no indication of their forward units. But get into position quickly. We’ve no idea how far away the Soviets are, or our friendly forces for that matter.”
“Will do, sir. Good luck. You too, Mike.”
“And you,” responded both Lieutenant Gibson and Major Dawson.
The lieutenant climbed back into the Saxon armoured vehicle and sped off, closely followed by the rest of his platoon.
“Sir, sir, you’re wanted,” called Company Sergeant Major Webb, who had been keeping radio watch in the FFR Land Rover, waving the handset in the OC’s direction.
“You had better be off as well, Michael. I’ll come and check on your positions once I’ve established some fire support for us.”
“Sir.” With that, Lieutenant Gibson also went to rejoin his unit, First-Platoon, and climbed into the Saxon parked close by, joining his platoon sergeant, informing them where they were headed for. Gibson indicated for the driver to pull off and pointed in the direction he wanted him to take. “Through there. Don’t stop. The gate looks flimsy enough.”
The driver accelerated, and the powerful engine drove the ten-ton armoured personnel carrier forward, the prominent front of the vehicle making short work of the wooden gate that was designed to control access to the quarry.
“Make it fast. No stopping.”
Once through, the driver, following the platoon commander’s orders, turned right, following a narrow track through the trees. After five minutes, they left the thin covering of trees and were out in the open, rough scrub-covered ground either side of them. They looped back, almost to where they had started, before turning right and heading east along the escarpment, a stepped slope dropping down where large excavators had slowly extracted the minerals they sought from the quarry. They tracked along the rim. At one point, the wheels were centimetres from the edge, chunks of earth and rock dropping down disturbed by the armoured vehicles. The driver nudged the vehicle over, keeping as far to the right as possible. The track slowly led them northeast until they arrived at the far end of the quarry.
Lieutenant Gibson ordered a halt, and he and the sergeant surveyed the ground in front of them.
“Corporal Fletcher.”
“Sir.”
“Place your section over there,” the Lieutenant ordered, pointing in the direction of the south-eastern edge of the slope. “Have your gun-group facing east, but have a couple of men watching south. You should be able to see Two-Platoon digging in below you any time soon.”
“What about the vehicles, sir?”
Gibson turned towards his sergeant. “What do you think, Sarn’t Newman?”
“Keep them within twenty metres, sir. That way, they can use the Gympy on top and make a quick getaway when needed.”
“Agreed. Keep them near the track. When we move, it’ll have to be quick. You sort them out. I’ll deal with the rest.”
“Roger that, sir.”
The two men separated just as another Saxon troop carrier turned up, carrying a Milan team with two Milan firing points.
Lieutenant Gibson took control of the remaining two sections, positioning one on the left flank with the Milan’s overlooking the Autobahn further down. The third section looked east, watching over the K-74 below. He wasn’t entirely happy. There were at least 100 metres between each section. He prayed silently that the enemy wouldn’t be coming this way.
Chapter 12
1200, 9 JULY 1984. 12TH GUARDS TANK DIVISION, 3RD SHOCK ARMY. EAST OF KIRCHHORSTEN, WEST GERMANY.
THE BLUE EFFECT -2 DAYS
The Divisional Commander of the 12th Guards Tank Division threw the mug he had been holding across the other side of the farm building he was in. He lit one of his foul-smelling cigarettes directly from the one he had just smoked down to his fingertips. Frustration and anger were etched on his face. Even senior generals were suffering from the increasingly erratic logistical supplies getting through to the Soviet divisions on the front line. The Soviet air force was still holding its own, but that was all. As more and more American fighters arrived in theatre and with the floating airfield, the United Kingdom, far from subjugated, they were not getting it all their own way. But the Bear, Major-General Turbin, Commander of 12th Guards Tank Division, wasn’t just dissatisfied with the Soviet resupply battalions: he was also extremely dissatisfied with his troops. What made it worse was that his deputy commander and political officer, Colonel Yolkin, had been bleating most of the morning: reminding him of his duty to his senior commanders and the Motherland. Their first attempts to shatter the forces defending a line between the Mittellandkanal and Stadthagen, and fulfil his division’s role as an Operational Manoeuvre Group pushing deep into the enemy lines, had failed.
Turbin blew out a plume of smoke from the Belomorkanal cigarette, and it swirled around the officer standing before him. “Akim, Colonel Kharzin’s 48th Tank Regiment crossed the Leine and pushed through the enemy force almost without a pause. To give him and his tank crews a well-deserved rest, all I asked you to do was cross a thinly held line and continue the fight and get us to the big prize: the River Weser.”
The commander of the 200th Guards Motor Rifle Regiment had flinched when the cup flew past him, but s
till stood stiffly to attention. “We need more artillery support, Comrade General.”
“The first unit was made up of British reservists and you were supported by our airborne prima donnas!”
“Their Milan anti-tank missiles and helicopters have caused havoc with our armour, Comrade General.”
“That’s why we chose your infantry for the task, Colonel Yermakov,” the chief of staff, Colonel Pyotr Usatov, added.
“I will not fail again, Comrade General, Comrade Colonel.”
“I suggest you do not, Colonel. The consequences of failure will be far from pleasant,” eluded the Deputy Commander of the division, Colonel Yolkin.
The Bear looked across at his skinny political officer, a uniform that wore him rather than the other way round. The meaning in the divisional commander’s eyes was undisguised: I will berate my officers, not you.
“The Uman Division does not and will not fail. You will attempt a second breakthrough within the hour. I have secured two Hinds and ten Hips to support you. Allocate some men, find a place to set them down, and punch your way through their lines. Once you have broken them, release your tank battalion immediately to get as deep you can. Understood?”
“Yes, Comrade General, I will not fail you.”
The Bear took a long draw on his cigarette, the red glow eating deep into the tobacco. He blew a steady stream in the air and moved closer to his junior, leaning in close, the scent of smoke and vodka almost choking the officer.
“The 12th Guards Tank Division, my division, is one of the best in the Soviet army. We were chosen especially for this mission to lead our armies to victory. We will not fail our Motherland, Comrade Colonel. You will get your artillery support and transport to fly in an assault-company. Use them and don’t fail. Dismissed.”
The colonel stiffened his body. “Sir.” He saluted and left.